


The Boy

by elenatria



Category: Chernobyl (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Between Episodes, Daddy Kink, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pacho, Pining, Puppies, Sharing a Bed, hidden desire, pet stories, vodka dad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2020-09-27 12:10:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 20,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20407543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elenatria/pseuds/elenatria
Summary: Prompt: Pacho- comfort after the puppy scene.





	1. Mimi

Bacho took a sharp breath in as he struck the spark wheel.

_“Shit…” _he slurred squeezing the smoke between his lips, cursing his luck as he fingered blindly inside his Meteor pack to find nothing but dry leaves.

He let the soothing heat slip out of his lips slowly; only one cigarette before going to bed when he thought he had two.

_Fucking hell._

How could he fall asleep with just one smoke? He couldn’t even take a shit without them in that hellhole where they had been stacked up like pigs, where healthy young men would come in flocks to find their place in history and be rewarded with vodka crates, only to be sent back to their mamas puking their guts out, castrated, crippled for life. Walking ashes, he thought clicking his tongue. They clung to their precious medals and certificates of merit proudly even as their irradiated bodies shriveled up and died, melting away in a puddle of shit, never to be seen, never to be heard of again.

Most guys didn’t last more than a week or two whereas Bacho had been there for two months already. His chest filled with pride whenever he made the morbid comparison. Maybe his body was resistant to radiation, not that there were blood tests to prove that. Something like Superman, he thought chuckling to himself.

He winced watching the cigarette burn away between his fingers; this Superman felt weak without his Lady Nicotine. For a moment he considered going back to their shelter to steal Garo’s pack. That ugly Armenian didn’t need his smokes in the middle of the night, he always slept like a fucking baby as soon as he shut his eyes. Should he wake up and complain Bacho would knock his teeth out.

He removed a tiny leaf from the tip of his tongue, reconsidering: okay, not his teeth, maybe kick him in the balls or something. He didn’t want the Boy to wake up to an ugly toothless mug, he was scared enough as it was.

The swarthy Georgian paced up and down the muddy wooden corridor between tents, listening to the snoring and the grunts, the cry babies and the sleep talkers, the drunken mumbling, the prayers. Since Afghanistan he had developed the nose and ears of a hound - each shelter had its own sound, its own smell, and he could easily find his way in the dark. There were distinguishable traits, the stench of puke that would soak one tent for days or a lad jacking off in another. Like when he was at home with his brothers, crawling under the nose of his sleeping mother to have his first smoke in the vegetable plot, among cabbages and snails. No need for light, he had his ears, his hands, his nose. He had the moon.

He threw a glance around hoping he’d spot another soldier with a bad case of insomnia just like him, a smoker preferably, but no: only silent tents and the moon staring back at him with a mocking grin on its face.

“Fucker…” he spat at the round-faced ghost over his head and walked around tent 181, squishing the cigarette butt with his boot. Even without a smoke he didn’t want to go to bed yet. Sleep was overrated.

He sat on the ground with his back against the lamp pole looking up at the night sky, counting the few stars he could spot. He considered for a while going back in but he hated the smell of Garo’s armpits. He hated his face, his teeth, his moustache, he hated how he could remain silent for days on end, never giving him a good reason to smash his face.

He didn’t hate the Boy though.

The soldier cringed as Pavel creeped into his thoughts again. Remorse was biting at his chest. Maybe he shouldn’t have taken him on a hunt the first day he arrived, look at his baby cheeks, just a kid. He should have handed him over to someone else, the cooks maybe. Would have been nicer there, just cooking animals that were already dead, not killing them.

He was digging into the mud with the tip of his shoe when he heard something through the thick fabric of the tent. A soft sniveling sound, a choked sob, then a whimper. It wouldn’t stop. It went on and on and on like the burbling whisper of a stream.

Bacho cursed through his teeth and pulled his weight up with a reluctant grunt. Was he supposed to baby sit now? Maybe they should have sent them jars of baby food, he reckoned, not vodka. What the fuck.

He pulled the wooden door open and peered across the tent where he spotted Pavel’s cot in the dark, at the far end of the shelter: a bundle of covers with a lonely sniffling infant underneath.

_Great._

What the hell was he thinking crying like that? Of course Bacho had seen men twice Pavel’s age crying like babies as they witnessed poodles trying to escape the pits where they were being buried. A TV cameraman, yeah, that was the worst, couldn’t pull himself together for days. For all the things Bacho had seen and done, he never thought he’d have to sweet talk someone out of his nightmares.This was war and he had witnessed enough men crying for no reason. Pavel might as well grow a pair.

He walked through his comrades’ cots and the sniveling came to a sudden stop. The Boy was holding his breath.

_Proud little soldier, aren’t you. _

“Hey Pavel...” he breathed as he took light steps towards the cot. “You’re not sleeping?”

Pavel coughed, choking on his own snot.

“No…” he mewled.

“What is it?” the older man whispered making his voice as mellow as he could. He leaned over the bed.

“…Nothing…” came the answer through the covers.

_“Nothing?...”_ Bacho mimicked Pavel’s whine. “That doesn’t sound like ‘nothing’ to me. I could hear you through the fucking tent.”

“Sorry…” Pavel sniffled.

“You all right?”

“Y-yes. Missing home…” came the quick excuse. “I guess.”

“Missing home…” Bacho teased.

It dawned on him he had almost forgotten what that meant, missing a place, a person - so weird to not remember that sweet pain in his chest. It must have felt better than feeling nothing at all, he thought bitterly.

“Do you have a sweetheart waiting for you?” A feeble attempt at conversation, a memory long forgotten gnawing at him.

“…No…” Pavel replied wiping his nose with the back of his hand.

“You missing your mom?” Bacho insisted. “Your old man? Brothers and sisters?”

“I-I don’t have brothers and sisters…” Pavel mumbled almost apologetically.

Bacho turned to him arching a brow. “An only child,” he marveled. “That’s modern life for you.”

“No…” Pavel replied. “My mom couldn’t have any more babies after me…”

“Ah,” Bacho bit his lip in regret. “I see. Sorry to hear that.”

“It’s okay…” Pavel said lifting the covers over his head. “I keep her enough company, she says.”

“Yeah that’s nice,” Bacho nodded trying to remember his own mother’s eyes.

They were the easiest to remember, big and blue, like lakes. The rest he had forgotten. He had convinced himself he didn’t miss her - not her rare smiles, not her pain, not her last days of agony.

“Maybe you should write to her,” he proposed as he pushed clear topaz eyes out of his memory. “Make you feel better.”

Pavel sat up on the mattress. “No,” he muttered. “She wouldn’t understand.” 

“Understand what, that her boy is missing her? Of course she would understand, she’s your mom.”

Pavel shook his head repeatedly. “No, she wouldn’t. She’s not… like me. She has never hurt another God’s creature in her entire life.”

Bacho huffed and shoved a hand into his pocket for a pack that wasn’t there. He cursed again, his salvation was long gone. He’d steal Garo’s if he hadn’t heard him shifting under the sheets, agitated by their whispers.

“I hope you’re not one of those religious freaks,” he joked. “God died a long time ago, haven’t you heard?”

“G-God has nothing to do with it…” Pavel stuttered, his jaw clenched, his eyes as cold as ice. “I swore I’d protect them, I’d never let another animal die in my hands again, I--”

“What, you mean Saint Francis and all that Catholic crap?” Bacho scoffed. “Catholics and their tales, man, they’re the worst of the worst…”

“No…” Pavel insisted. “You don’t understand…”

Bacho opened his mouth in protest but all that came out was an exasperated sigh. He was no expert on psychology or religion, they didn’t teach those at school or in the army. Was he supposed to “understand” now, was he supposed to be good at pep talks? Next thing he knew they’d be crying on each other’s shoulder.

“What is there to understand?” he shrugged. “Animals live and fuck and die like the rest of us, that’s all there is to it.”

Pavel’s stony stare kept cutting through the dark searching for something Bacho couldn’t see; he curled his knees under his chin wrapping his arms around himself.

“I read in a book my teacher lent me once,” he muttered, “that our ancestors would ask for forgiveness from the animals and birds they killed for food. When the ancient Egyptians were dying, they would say a prayer: ‘I hurt no creature, deprived no animal of grain or grass.’”

Bacho smacked his lips with an array of excuses hanging at the tip of his tongue. “It’s about killing those pets today, right? We have no choice, boy, and if it wasn’t us, someone else would be killing them. Radiation will give them pain and still births and deformed fetuses, it’s going to be ugly for generations to come. They’re not pets anymore, they’re reactors.”

Pavel rocked back and forth on his cot squeezing his knees tighter. “They don’t know why we’re killing them,” he said blankly. “We were supposed to protect them from this, from… _us._ They’re only good enough to save when we use them. Their meat, their fur, their company. They’re just useful to us, nothing more.”

Bacho cocked a brow at the young philosopher. He never thought he’d be talking about the facts of life at this ungodly hour.

“I don’t know many things a man would do out of mercy, out of the goodness of his heart,” he growled. “That’s not how the world works. Even to humans we’re just as bad: we lie to each other, use each other, kill each other. Did you honestly think we’d be any better to animals?”

Pavel turned to face him for the first time, his tear-stained eyes as clear as lakes. “No,” he said, unblinking. “But we don’t even _try.”_

The wrinkle between Bacho’s brows deepened at the Boy’s honesty.

What was he doing talking to a child? Children were idealists, children spoke the truth, children could hurt you with their desperate need for justice. He had made his peace with the truth ages ago, when he was a boy too killing deer with his father, watching them bleed to death as they looked straight into his eyes, desperate for one last breath, yearning to know why. Back then he had tucked away the truth in a drawer he never intended to open again.

“I did _try_… once,” Pavel’s voice trailed off. “Back in Kiev, our block had a storage room, in the basement. I found a cat with her newborn kittens there, she had crept through the broken window. My mother and I knew the other residents would either drown her kittens or throw her rat poison, so we assumed she’d be better off living in Kaniv with my cousin, Alina. Her husband didn’t like cats but there was an abandoned cottage near her house where the cat could raise her kitties peacefully. Alina would bring her food and water every morning, until one day she found her dead in the street, run over by a car. And to think it was a peaceful street, only three families lived there.” Pavel was scratching his knees over the fabric of his pajamas, trying to focus on a different kind of pain.

He took a deep shaky breath. “Her orphans were less than two weeks old and they needed to be fed every three hours, even during the night. My cousin couldn’t do that, she was working, so she drove to Kiev and brought them back to me. I was a student then, I would wake during the night and feed them.”

Pavel took a long breath in, clasping his knees harder. “I bought them milk, I would warm it in a pot that I sterilized myself every three hours, then wait for it to cool down. I used an eyedropper to feed them, all four of them, as they mewed and whined for my attention, pissing themselves right after. I would wipe them with a cloth dipped in chamomile tea to keep them clean. They wouldn’t sleep at night, they needed their mama, and I couldn’t take them in my bed so I would wrap a towel around a hot water bottle and place a ticking clock in its folds to simulate their mother’s warmth and heartbeat, just to keep them calm, put them to sleep. I thought I did everything right, Bacho…”

The Georgian’s mouth parted at the soft-spoken mention of his name but the Boy wasn’t looking at him anymore.

“I didn’t sleep for days and days, I skipped school, and when I did go I would fall asleep on my desk.” Pavel’s eyes were shining in the dark, welling up with fresh tears that started streaming down his cheeks. “My mother couldn’t take care of them, she was working, so I was the only one. They started having diarrhea. The vet said they wouldn’t last long but they were getting dehydrated so I kept giving them milk and water. I think the milk was making it worse. The biggest, most playful one started losing weight. She would crawl behind their makeshift bed, hiding from the others, looking for solitude, for the last traces of warmth. I gave her a separate hot bottle, just for her. She looked like a dirty mop. I would push the eyedropper into her mouth and she would suck and suck even as her jaw went limp. She knew she was dying but she would suck out of reflex, out of instinct, until her tiny body started getting cold. That night I held her against my chest, trying to keep her warm. ‘Breathe,’ I whispered through her fur, “keep breathing”. She was so still. So… still.”

Pavel’s lips were trembling. When he opened his mouth again his voice had weakened to a whimper. “I wish animals understood our language as they die, you know?...”

A child’s wish, Bacho thought clenching his fist in his pocket until his knuckles went white.

Pavel shook his head, his eyes two slits of regret as he squeezed his lips together. “I don’t know if she knew that I wanted to keep her alive. She didn’t understand what was happening, she didn’t complain, she didn’t make a sound. She just died.”

Pavel bit down on his fist to choke a whimper. “H-her siblings followed,” he stuttered blinking away the tears, “dying one after the other. All of them turned cold in my hands. Little balls of fur, no bigger than my palm. They didn’t know what death was. Too young. Babies.”

Bacho watched the Boy as a wave of sobs swept through his body making him look even younger, even more helpless than he was.

“I swore I would protect animals when that happened,” Pavel swallowed hard. “I swore I’d do my best. Is that…” he gestured around hopelessly. “Is that what ‘doing my best’ looks like?...”

Bacho played aimlessly with his lighter striking sparks out of it, realizing what had kept him from sleeping that night. It was the sin of sending an innocent to kill other innocents that was weighing down on him, and he didn’t even believe in God.

“We betrayed them all,” he stated monotonously. “We keep betraying them every day.”

He gave a bitter chuckle. “You’d think keeping those kitties out of sight and out of mind would help you, right? Keep them out of the basement, away from rat poison… Yeah. Cities are not meant for them. We domesticate them only to abandon them, to watch them die in our own traps.”

He peered through the dark as if his memories were being projected like a film on the shelter’s wall. “I knew a girl once, Natela… We dated for a couple of years,” he murmured, a ghost of a smile brushing over his aquiline features. “She loved dogs, she loved them so much. I think she loved dogs more than she loved babies,” he said scratching his curly head. “I told her once that I wanted to have babies with her but she refused, she said she was too young, wanted to travel, live her life. I shrugged, I didn’t mind, I took life as it was. So Natela… She couldn’t have a dog, it wasn’t allowed in her mother’s apartment plus she didn’t have the money for it. We resorted to going to the park once a week to feed the strays. Natela loved one stray in particular, Mimi.” He mouthed the name like it was the cutest thing in the world, warm and fluffy in his mouth. “Like in the opera, ‘La Boheme’ you know?”

He inspected his fingers, the sticky black dirt under his nails he couldn’t get rid of, and from the corner of his eye he noticed Pavel’s drying eyes - he was sitting up, alert, hanging from every word. It was better to listen to someone else’s suffering, Bacho pondered, better for the soul. He didn’t have one but Pavel did. Maybe that was a thing to fight for after all.

“Mimi was a mongrel,” he continued. “She would yap with joy whenever she saw us approaching with our paper bags full of bones and leftovers. She had been adopted by the kiosk owner working in the park who would raise money from customers to get her vaccinated. He would even decorate her dog house with ornaments during New Year’s holidays. When it wasn’t too cold Natela and I would cross the busy road separating the park from her apartment block. I’d whistle and Mimi would jump out of the bushes to run into Natela’s arms. The one day—” Bacho paused.

He looked around, desperate for a drink.

Finding nothing he opened his arms, shrugging. “One day Natela fell out of love,” he said casually snapping his fingers, “just like that. I guess it was my fault for never asking too much. Always going where she went. Always following. The coldness between us had been building up for months. One day she said she wanted to visit Poland alone, said she had friends there. We had our breakfast in silence, toasted bread with butter, drank our coffee, until I couldn’t stand the silence anymore. I said ‘Maybe I should leave’ and got up. ‘…Then leave’ was all she said. Simple as that.” He rubbed his temple, trying to remember everything before he could forget it all again. “As I was packing my things, my briefs, my toothbrush, she started crying. Instead of saying some mawkish shit about farewells she said… she said she hadn’t seen Mimi in weeks, months, but she didn’t dare ask the kiosk owner what had happened to her.”

Bacho played with his lighter making it slide and disappear between his fingers like an old conjurer who had grown tired of his own tricks. “I left her apartment with my bag under my arm, feeling empty and used up. Almost unconsciously I crossed the busy road and reached the kiosk where we would always go together, where we would visit Mimi, _our_ Mimi, our one constant. The kiosk owner wasn’t there anymore. There was another guy. I looked at the empty dog house and asked him what had happened to her. He said—”

He tried his next words in his mind again and again until his tongue went stiff as a plank. “He said… Mimi had been run over by a car crossing the busy road months before we even noticed her absence. The same road Natela would cross to go to the park, to go to work, to visit her friends. Just a road Mimi had crossed hundreds of times before.”

Bacho rubbed his lip repeatedly avoiding Pavel’s shocked gaze. “Dogs get run over by cars every day, don’t they?” he said. “Human streets, human cities, human power plants… They’re not meant for dogs, boy. Nobody cares if another stray gets its skull smashed crossing the street or if it gets contaminated. Nobody cares if we’re shooting pets in abandoned villages or people, no difference to them. Fuck, nobody cares about_ us.”_

Pavel’s cheeks were glistening with the last traces of tears when he finally opened his mouth, breaking the silence.

“I do,” he said, his words almost a whisper.

“You do what?”

“Care.”

Bacho lifted his head, chuckling. He knew he wasn’t supposed to feel anything for anyone after that day in the park but Pavel was different; he had started growing on him, infesting him, like measles. He laughed at his own joke, a baby joke he would never tell the Boy.

He patted Pavlunya on the shoulder.

(nicknames already popping in his head - a bad sign)

“Go to sleep now. No more crying.”

He got up slowly and Pavel followed him with his eyes as his warm calloused hand dragged across the young man’s shoulder blades.

“I—cannot sleep,” Pavel said.

“Well I can’t either,” Bacho agreed opening his arms. “Maybe come smoke with me?”

Pavel shook his head. “No. It would be better if – if you _stayed_ here.”

“Stay here? Stay here where?” the older man asked glancing around, baffled.

Pavel lowered his eyes in shame as his cheeks took on a redder hue and he promptly sank under his covers turning his back on the veteran.

Bacho rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palms, wincing, trying to resist the urge to comfort this useless puppy with a hug and a few belly rubs. What the hell did he want now?

With a resigned grunt he removed his fatigue jacket, tossed it on the floor and sat next to Pavel.

“Move over, will ya?” he urged him giving his arm a light squeeze.

As he lay down without taking his boots off he thought he heard a content hum, certain that his imagination and sleeplessness were playing tricks on him. He enveloped Pavel’s small frame and wrapped his free arm around him, bracketing him with his whole body like twins in a womb.

It never occurred to Bacho that he’d have to do this when he enlisted. Comforting an innocent seemed to be that night’s unexpected task but, for now, it seemed to be the only task to have any meaning in this madness.

A second peaceful hum confirmed that he hadn’t imagined the first one. He hadn’t experienced fatherhood before, maybe he never would, yet he knew Pavlunya was already falling asleep, going limp in his arms as his breath grew deeper.

He smiled into the young man’s chestnut hair.

Yeah, he really liked this boy.

_His_ Boy.


	2. Roulette

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Pavel charged Bacho's rifle during the breaks, not to mention the fact that Vodka Dad made clear with the other soldiers that the boy is already taken. Uhm, alpha/omega?

“Nobody fucks with him.”

The brisk aggressive warning kept echoing in Pavel’s ears as he watched Bacho with bleary eyes winning a game of Roulette, round after half-drunken round. No matter how many times the Georgian got to drink from the vodka glass he never seemed to get lightheaded. He would down the burning liquid happily and yelp “Bang!” as he slammed the cup on the upturned crate that served as a table. Sometimes people placed bets, sometimes they lingered and watched out of pure envy, eager to see Bacho the Butch stumble and fall on his face. He never indulged them though, never lost; alcohol ran through him like the blood in his veins and he would laugh heartily at the frowning faces of those of little faith.

Pavel took another long swig from his cup sneaking glances at his comrades, wishing he looked drunk enough, relaxed enough to not go through a hazing session. Not that Bacho would allow anyone to pull any dedovshchina crap on him, not when they were all enjoying themselves around the fire, but Pavel had seen more than once new recruits being woken up by older soldiers after lights out. They would be forced to do push-ups and knee-bends for hours on end, and those who stopped without permission would be beaten. Other times they’d be held down by their hands and feet to have the words “loser” or “bitch” etched on their foreheads and chests. He suffered none of the torture and humiliation – Bacho had made sure of that from day one. But he didn’t know why.

The same imaginary dialogue played in the young man’s head again and again like a broken record as he gazed at Bacho collecting his profits from the Roulette players, shoving them down his pocket with a wide triumphant grin on his face.

_Why did you do that?_

_Do what?_

_Protect me. You hardly knew me._

The swarthy veteran would blink, slack-jawed, bewildered by the pointless question.

_You were in MY tent. You, me and another six fuckers, and you were the youngest. What’s so hard to understand?_

Would Bacho be just as frank and deadpan as Pavel expected him to be? Or would he falter? Would he take a long drag from his Meteor cigarette and look away, adjusting the rifle belt on his shoulder, dodging the question with an awkward laugh and a silent shake of the head?

Pavel didn’t want to know. For the time being it was enough to gawp at the way the older man carried himself among the other soldiers. To lose himself in the meanders of thick raven hair, the long curve of his aquiline nose, the darkness in his gaze - a black fathomless abyss that was more than Afghanistan, more than merciful “animal control”, more than raw Georgian brawn.

He let the fiery liquid burn his throat wincing in pain as he emptied his cup.

What did he know of Georgian veterans who had been to Afghanistan anyway?

Shit-all, as someone would say.

He finished his drink and got on his feet, wiping his sweaty hands on his thighs.

“Hey boy, too much vodka?” Bacho yelled at him making his heart skip a beat. Everyone laughed.

Instead of an answer Pavel shook his head and disappeared behind a tent.

_Fuck him, _he thought unbuckling his belt in front of a pine tree.

_He doesn’t know anything about you either. _


	3. Alpha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: The soldiers get drunk and talk about the best sex they had, someone teases Pavel about it and he says nothing because he doesn't want to admit he is a virgin and can't stop thinking he will very likely die a virgin at a young age.

When Pavel returned to the bonfire tucking his shirt into his pants, torn between creeping into the safety of his tent and going back to the midnight bustle just to get one more glimpse of Bacho’s eyes lit by the dying flames, a deck of cards and an admirable collection of lewd first-time stories had been brought out as the perfect reminder that this was a proper “boys’ night out”. Bacho was giggling and sharing a joint with four other men, his eyelids heavier than usual, his voice dragging lazily from sentence to sentence blurting out sex stories, one spicier than the other. Pavel crinkled his noise, quickly turning away as Bacho glared back at him, his hashish-induced glee melting rapidly into a frown. 

_Shit._

Pavel didn’t mean to be seen – or to judge him. He couldn’t possibly know what that man had been through, and the innocent pet confessions they had shared a few nights ago in the darkness of their tent were nothing more than just the tip of Bacho’s deep suffering. Still, it didn’t feel right. Somehow it felt as if he was losing the only man whom he dared call his friend to a cloud of smoke meant to make people forget they had been sent there to kill.

_(and die)_

Pavel could taste the bitter mixture of worry and loneliness in his mouth; he definitely wasn’t ready to forget, contrary to what his comrades were trying to do with endless card games, vodka and joints. He hadn’t made his peace yet with what they were there for. It was all sinking into him still, every bullet he shot, every furry corpse he hurled into the truck. Every single memory of the past few days was staining his soul drop by unbearable drop and he knew that if he didn’t mourn all those deaths he’d go mad.

Only a hardened man like Bacho wouldn’t go mad, he realized, and the reason was easy to guess: killing was what he was good at.

He filled his lungs with as much air as he could and with a few unexpectedly emboldened strides he reached the noisy crowd and sat across Bacho, scowling; the olive-skinned man took one last drag on his joint, his brown almond eyes like daggers into the depths of Pavel’s soul, before dropping the butt to the ground, crushing it beneath his heel.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing, brother?” protested the yellow-haired man next to him. “It was my turn.”

“Fuck you, Janek, the joint was finished,” Bacho slurred, his nostrils flaring with contempt, his gaze not moving one inch from Pavel’s face.

He tilted his head and raised his brows questioningly, waiting for Pavel’s reaction.

_“Happy?”_

Entranced by the joint’s unceremonious fate and the manly boot over it, Pavel nodded in approval despite himself. Bacho’s response, a faint content smile, was a clear indication that Pavel wasn’t good at disguising his feelings.

The young man’s cheeks were heating up and he knew it wasn’t just the fire.

“Says who?” Janek complained making Bacho flinch with an almost pained expression, as if he had been rudely awakened from a sweet and comfortable dream.

“Says I,” the Georgian barked at him, “and I’m not your brother, you smelly cocksucking Estonian.”

The Russians and the Ukrainians sitting around the fire grabbed their bellies and slapped their knees laughing while the few Estonians booed gesturing vividly, nudging each other as Bacho reached for another bottle of vodka.

“Yeah, as if you’ve never sucked a cock yourself,” someone mumbled from across the fire.

Bacho slowly turned to face the man with the big mouth and the short life expectancy.

The Armenian hadn’t moved an inch from his seat as he kept licking a cigarette paper, oblivious to Bacho’s ominous stare.

“What did you say?...” Bacho snarled.

“You heard me,” was Garo’s indifferent answer as he rolled his smoke with taunting calmness.

Bacho jumped on his feet turning the vodka bottle upside down and five soldiers rushed on his side, blocking his view.

“C’mon, Bacho, he’s not worth prison, let it go,” a pale man with a thick moustache tried to calm him. “He’s drunk.”

“Not as drunk as I am…” Bacho threatened, measuring Garo with a deadly glower.

“Alexei is right, not worth it, instead tell us about that time you hid in that brothel in Kabul,” another soldier urged him exchanging behind his back worried glances with the man with the moustache.

“No…” Bacho growled, his chest heaving with boiling anger, “I told that story a thousand times before…”

“Then tell us about the American girl,” Alexei suggested.

_“What_ American girl?” Janek jumped in. “That’s all bullshit, he never fucked an American."

“And you’ve never fucked a _female,”_ Bacho clapped back, “unless she was hairy and bleating.”

The soldiers cracked up patting Bacho on the shoulder and Pavel sighed with relief seeing the weathered face of his mentor soften. Everyone was breathing again knowing damn well they had just dodged a bullet.

“Well I know who _I_ was fucking before I came to this hell with you assholes,” Janek ignored the insult with a grin full of wretched teeth.

“Who?” Alexei asked.

“My violin teacher,” Janek bragged. “She’s forty-five, twice my age, and it takes two hands to grab just _one_ of her tits.”

“What a load of crap, what’s the use of big boobs if a woman can’t fuck you properly?” Bacho scoffed.

The soldiers ooh’ed and aah’ed, and some of them giggled knowingly.

“I thought it was us fucking them…” said a young Ukrainian with red hair.

“Then you haven’t met a real woman,” Bacho gloated. “A proper female will suck you dry and ride you ‘til morning. And if she’s a doctor, like mine was, she will know all the right spots to stimulate you.”

“Oh look, Bacho the intellectual,” someone teased.

“Well,” Alexei began, “I had a friend once, he knew a girl who invited us over to her place. She brought us drinks, we had a few laughs, and then she said she wanted to blow us all. I tell you, we were staring at each other like idiots. She said we’d have to wait in line though, in a separate room, like waiting for a medical appointment. The anticipation and the excited talks we had with the other lads… it was all such sweet torture. Sexiest thing I’ve ever experienced.”

“You guys talk too much,” Janek cut him off, “let’s have a newcomer talk this once, hey Pavel, what’s your story?”

Pavel froze as he heard his name cried out so casually, his breath trapped in his lungs for a second that felt like a century.

“S-story…?” he stuttered, sweat breaking behind his ears.

“Yeah, man, what’s your story?” Janek insisted. “The greatest fuck you’ve ever had. The most mind-blowing, hair-rising, pants-dampening bang of your life.”

Pavel took another gulp and let his trembling mouth drop. “I’m… Actually I… I don’t—”

“Don’t have any good stories to share?” Alexei finished his sentence. “It’s okay, we’ll settle with the worst sex that you’ve ever had, can’t have been _that_ rare…” he added cockily nudging Janek. They held their ribs howling so loudly that Pavel couldn’t hear his own thoughts.

“No it’s just that I… I…” he muttered as a flush of embarrassment rose to his cheeks.

“What, you’ve never had sex before?” Janek teased him.

Pavel fell silent. He wasn’t shaking anymore. His lips closed tightly stifling words that would make him look like a complete and total failure and he kept his palms on his knees taking shallow breaths with eyes fixed to the ground.

Bacho, with a hundred storms raging behind his dark gaze, took a small step toward him, his fists clenching against his thighs. The distance between them was still too big, a distance he didn’t seem willing to close.

Janek’s smug smile faded away. “You _can’t_ be serious…” he told the boy, bewildered. “How old are you anyway?”

Pavel’s lips were quivering. “T-twenty… twenty three.”

“No way,” Janek exclaimed slapping his knee. “And you’re still a virgin? What the fuck!”

“Shut the fuck up, Janek, not everyone is a slut like you,” Bacho intervened shoving a hand against the man’s chest.

“You need to calm down, Bacho, when was the last time you fucked?” Janek said.

Bacho pinned him with granite eyes, grabbed him by the collar and pulled him so close to his face that their noses were touching, so close that Janek could feel the scorching heat of fury in the man's breath.

“Careful or you might be next on my to-fuck list,” Bacho hissed bearing wolf-like teeth and held him up on his toes. “And you don’t want to be on my to-fuck list, blondie…”

Janek slipped from Bacho’s deadly grip as the Georgian, in a merciful gesture, fanned out his fingers, his open palms still alarmingly close to the Estonian's throat. Janek readjusted his collar and quickly averted his eyes taking a step back like a beaten animal.

“Alright!” Alexei yelled clapping his hands. “Who’s up for a game of Durak?”

“Not me, I’m tired…” Bacho slurred rubbing his eye with the heel of his palm. “I’m leaving you losers drink yourselves to death, I’m outta here.”

He handed his half-empty bottle to a speechless Alexei and dragged his steps away from the fire, taking a beat as his eyes met with Pavel’s.

The boy wasn’t crouching anymore; he was sitting up straight, sweaty hands still glued on his knees, but there was something in his lost expression that wasn’t there before. Pavel hoped Bacho could see it even if he’d never dare put his thoughts and desires into words - not in front of his quick-tempered mentor, not if he threatened him with a thousand push-ups and knee-bends in the radioactive rain. And maybe Bacho was too drunk or too indifferent to notice it anyway.

It was gratitude.

The older man considered Pavel’s face for a few good seconds, soft eyes shifting from his sapphire gaze to the plumpness of his lips, to the cleft of his exposed collarbone, the only part of the young man’s skin he was allowed to see. He nodded slowly in complicit silence before walking away, leaving him lost in confusing, forbidden thoughts.

Pavel closed his eyes taking a deep breath. He was wrong about Bacho after all; perhaps even a menacing thick-skinned veteran like him knew a clear blue-eyed “thank you” when he saw one.


	4. Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Bacho-"sexy vodka Dad" and Pavel-"I am a puppy too, look at me".

Strange, feverish dreams taunted Pavel’s sleep that night. Later on he wondered if it was too much vodka or the smoke he inhaled from his comrades’ joints; or maybe it was the constant worry that something might happen to the stranger who had taken him under his wing, the only man in his life who had bothered to teach and protect him.

He dreamed of dogs with children’s faces and children with dogs’ faces grinning grotesquely at him, their teeth glinting in the sun. Closing one eye he pointed invisible guns at them, and he was suddenly five again. His father was giving him a toy rifle for his birthday although Pavel couldn’t see his face. _“But it isn’t my birthday,”_ he tried to mumble, his lips and tongue heavy and swollen as if he had just been to the dentist. _“Nonsense,”_ his father replied patting him on the back, “_it is your birthday every day.”_

The eerie abandoned yard from a childhood he never knew was replaced by red padded seats as he found himself watching “La Boheme” from the balcony of the National Opera House. Bacho was sitting next to him in a beautiful cream suit and a tie that were complementing his olive skin, holding his hand, crying. When Mimi in her deathbed sang to Rodolfo “Nobody is alone in April” Pavel turned to ask Bacho if that was the same Mimi they used to feed in the park, only to find him pointing the toy rifle at him before turning it against himself. Bacho steadied it under his chin and before Pavel could do anything to stop him, he pulled the trigger mouthing “Bang!”.

Pavel didn’t hear the deafening shot, instead he felt it in his gut when everything turned white, engulfing him in a deadly light.

Not a single sound came out of his throat even if he knew he was screaming his lungs out.

He woke with a jerk and a gasp and panted desperately for air, for toxic, poisonous, radioactive air, the only air that he had. The sweat on the nape of his neck and on his thighs was pooling under him making him sticky. Since he had arrived there he had thought that _any_ dream with Bacho would make him hard and sticky but instead of delightful swelling and moisture, the only dampness on him was gathering in the corners of his eyes. The shock of a voiceless cry was still rippling through his body making him choke again and again until his whimpers weakened into silent sobs smothered by his pillow.

It didn’t take him long to remember he was crying like a baby in a tent with another seven men. He held his breath to listen: luckily, they were still in their cots, snoring. He cocked his head, looking for Bacho in the half-light.

The cot was empty.

He put his clothes on hastily and tiptoed out of the tent making sure there were no eyes watching him. Garo was the only man outside, sitting on a barrel and smoking alone like he always did before breakfast, piercing the teal blue mist of dawn with his crimson snuff.

“Where’s Bacho?” Pavel asked.

Garo made a couple of smoke rings like a man relishing the solitude of an early morning before he bothered to reply. “Gone,” he croaked spitting out a leaf.

“Gone? What do you mean gone?” Pavel felt his pulse quicken. “Why so early?”

“He’s gone hunting.” The Armenian inspected the boy’s lost expression with eyes as curious as they were fathomless. _“Alone,” _he wiggled his eyebrows.

“Well… did he say why?”

“No, he just told me to get out of his face or he’d chop my balls off.” He tilted his head sideways resting his eyes below Pavel’s belt, as if to measure him. “Not sure _yours_ would get the same treatment though,” his voice trailed off mysteriously.

Pavel stood in front of the man and gaped, unable to think of a fitting answer.

“He’s getting the truck now.” Garo puffed out the last smoke, threw down his cigarette and ground the butt into the dirt. “You might want to _catch him,” _he nodded at Pavel knowingly.

Pavel’s eyes widened as he felt ants crawling all over his body.

_Maybe it wasn’t too late._

With a single sharp inhale he held onto his hat and sprinted through the silent tents until he reached the trucks. He halted in the middle of the parking lot, frantically scanning the empty immobilized vehicles, almost sniffing the air for Bacho’s manly scent. He crossed a couple of aisles until he spotted the heel of a black boot disappearing into a truck. A veiny dark-skinned arm slammed the door closed.

_“Wait!” _

Pavel ran to the truck and banged his fist on the glass until Bacho was forced to roll down the window.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing to my window?” the Georgian barked. “Get the hell out of here, go back to sleep.”

“Where are you going?” Pavel coughed trying to catch his breath.

“Animal control, what did you think?” Bacho spat, annoyed.

“Alone?”

“YES, alone, now keep walking.”

“I’m coming with you,” Pavel cut him off decidedly, ran around the front of the truck banging on the hood as if they were going on a picnic at the end of the rainbow and pulled at the door handle before Bacho could jump over the seats to push the lock down.

As Pavel barged into the truck he almost fell on Bacho who was still reaching for the lock. The older man raised his hands, defeated.

“I thought I wouldn’t babysit just this once…” he rolled his eyes.

“Who says you’ll have to babysit me?” Pavel quipped, his face as expressionless as a statue.

Bacho shook his head and started the engine, cursing under his breath.


	5. Free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alone at last.

The first rays of light shone over the deserted land as a reminder of a long-lost normalcy, a glimpse of how life ought to be everywhere else on the planet but there, on that barren landscape, that unique, eternally poisonous spot on the map.

The man and the boy drove through fields and farms where Pavel spotted many places they hadn’t visited before, the so-called “dirty villages” as opposed to the ones they had already cleaned of the lives and life forms humans had left behind. Bacho was keeping stubbornly silent refusing to make any stops, driving on until Pavel realized they were going around in circles.

He was about to ask why when the brooding man on the wheel broke the silence.

“I’m not supposed to be alone with you,” he grumbled, eyes staring straight ahead.

“Why--”

“You know very well why,” Bacho snapped. “I’m not gonna spend the rest of my life in a Gulag because of you.”

Pavel sighed. “I’m not here to cause any trouble.”

“What are you here for then?”

“Stop you from killing yourself.”

_“What?...” _

Pavel swore he had never seen a funnier grimace in his adult life. Suppressing a giggle he hoped his mentor was as good a lover as he was a driver: for all the shock in Bacho's bulging eyes, his experienced hands and feet were keeping the two of them steady and safe on their course to nowhere.

“I saw a dream,” Pavel explained, “we were at the opera, you were blowing your brains out with my toy rifle.”

_“Jesus_ Christ, and you’re here because of a fucking dream?” Bacho huffed.

“I guess...”

The truck took an abrupt turn on the road between two fields.

“I have no intention of killing myself,” the veteran assured him. “And I still have no idea what you’re doing here.”

“I told you, it was my dream,” Pavel insisted.

“Start having different dreams, will you?” Bacho rumbled. “Try sex dreams, that’s what I do.”

Pavel licked his dry lips gathering up all the courage he had. “Who… who do you dream of?”

“What…?”

“Who do you--”

The brakes’ screeching sound smothered Pavel’s last words as Bacho pulled over on the side of the road. He released his seat belt and turned to the boy.

“You’re gonna get us both shot, you know that?” he pointed a threatening finger at Pavel's face.

“But Garo said you--”

“Never mind what that dickhead said,” Bacho spat, “this is Soviet land, not Afghanistan. If they caught us--”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to--” Pavel stuttered.

“You’re sorry? _Sorry?”_ Bacho laughed. “You have no idea what being sorry means, boy. No _fucking_ idea.”

Pavel frowned; the last thing he needed that moment was being reminded of his inexperience.

“Maybe you could explain…?” he suggested timidly. He knew this was no time to have an argument with the man on the driver’s seat but there was an unchartered depth in Bacho’s eyes that was both horrifying and pitiful.

Bacho pursed his lips, the wrinkles on his forehead deepening in painful memory. “You weren’t the first to come to me you know,” he rasped. “Lost, wagging his tail for protection, sad puppy eyes…” He rubbed his forehead with the heel of his palm as if to fight off a lingering migraine. “_JESUS_ fucking Christ…”

“I… don’t understand.”

“There’s nothing to understand,” Bacho growled. “It never got serious, it was nothing, but the others could smell it on us, the potential, the… _need._ They thought they’d make him tougher, make a man out of him before it was too late. See, it was just a game to them, it was just…” Bacho squeezed the wheel until his knuckles went white. “They… They hazed him to death.”

“What…”

Pavel felt his heart sinking. It was unimaginable - the strongest, toughest man he had met since he had arrived in that god-forsaken place had stopped the truck in the middle of nowhere to show him the gaping wound in his soul. His only friend, his protector, drowning in an ocean of regret.

He lowered his eyes as if he had been there, as if he was responsible somehow. “I’m… sorry…”

“Don’t be,” Bacho chuckled bitterly like someone who had heard a million sorries in his life. “I assure you no one will ever be as ‘sorry’ as he was when he was gulping down water instead of air. So don’t try acting sad, you’re not him. And you’re not me.”

“I wish I were…”

Bacho turned to contemplate Pavel’s face. “You might want to take that wish back, boy,” he grumbled. “You are nothing like me, you’ll never be like me. Thank God for that.”

“But I want to.”

“You want _what,_ to become an expert in merciful killings?” Bacho roared jutting his face toward him. “Fine. I’ll teach you how.”

He shoved the door open and walked around to the back of the truck. Pavel followed him with fearful eyes taking off his seat belt as Bacho pulled the back of the stakebed down and grabbed a riffle. Before the young man could turn, Bacho opened the door, grabbed his arm and pulled him out, almost dragging him to the ground like a rag doll. Pavel had barely stumbled back on his feet when the rifle was hurled at him, punching the air out of his lungs.

“I’ve taught you how to shoot,” Bacho panted. “Now shoot.”

“W-why?” Pavel stuttered, his lips white as a sheet.

“_BECAUSE I’M TELLING YOU, YOU FUCKHEAD,”_ Bacho roared. “Can’t you obey a simple fucking order?”

Pavel’s lips were trembling. “You… You told me never to point this gun at you. That was my order.”

“That was a _rule_, not an order,” Bacho corrected him, raging fire lighting up his eyes. “And I’m changing the rules now. Are you an idiot?”

“N-No…” Pavel whispered lowering his head, looking for a way out of that nightmare among the rocks and pebbles under his feet.

“Then _SHOOT.”_

“I…”

For all his numbness and terror Pavel was trying to figure out a way to blow Bacho’s head with the back of his rifle so as to bring him unconscious back to the safety of the camp. Trying to talk him out of suicide would be pointless. He wished Garo had come with them, he wished they weren’t alone. He wished--

“I can’t.”

Bacho grabbed the barrel with both hands and stabbed his own chest with it. “Do a man a favour,” he snarled shaking the gun, digging it deeper into his flesh. “Isn’t that what you want to be good at? Merciful killings? C’mon, no one will know, you’ll tell them you heard rustling leaves and you thought it was a dog.”

Pavel was gawking at him wondering if it would be a good idea to let go of the rifle, leave him with it. They weren’t supposed to be doing this, fighting. They were supposed to be on their knees with prying hands all over each other.

“Why don’t you shoot me, Pavel…” Bacho pleaded, his gaze softer now, broken, welling up with agony. “Shoot me before I… Before anyone knows, before anyone suspects. Before you get killed because of me… Please, Pavlunya, do this for me… _Please…”_

Pavel felt Bacho’s grip on the barrel loosen for a second – that was all he needed; with one long terrified grunt he ripped it from Bacho’s maddened clutch and flung it beyond his reach. The gun made a circle in the air and landed a few meters away raising a cloud of dust.

Bacho, chest heaving, eyes of a lunatic, dragged his steps toward Pavel glaring down on him, clenching and unclenching his fists on his sides.

“That was a mistake, boy,” he said menacingly.

“No,” Pavel said. “You’re not gonna die, not on my watch.”

“You forgot rule number two,” Bacho groaned, his nose inches away from Pavel’s shivering ghost-like paleness. “Don’t let them suffer or I’ll kill you. I didn’t mean just the poor buggers we’ve been shooting down.”

“No,” Pavel shook his head pressing his lips shut. _“No.”_

“What do you mean ‘no’?”

“I’m not shooting you down. Kill me, I’m not shooting you down.”

The unexpected blow that landed on Pavel’s jaw turned the world black as he fell flat, chest on the ground, hands scratching on rough pebbles to soften the fall. He sucked in a gasp filling his lungs with dust but before he could turn to face his attacker Bacho rolled him on his back, straddling him.

“Why are you doing this?” the dark-haired man roared “Why? You wanna die?”

“We’re dead anyway…” Pavel muttered with a calmness he didn’t know he had.

Bacho searched his face, his piercing, unreadable stare. Drops of sweat were sliding down his temples, falling on Pavel’s cheeks. Pavel wasn’t panting anymore, he was blinking slowly, his gaze patient, serene and fathomless.

“You don’t understand,” Bacho said with growing despair. “The things I want to do to you, the things… I would have you do to me, they’re not just illegal, they’re immoral.”

“I don’t care,” Pavel breathed as vivid images of his tongue doing sinful, wonderful things to the man riding him played behind his closed eyes, his throat dry as the soil beneath them. He repeated the words softly hoping the Georgian would finally realize his need for him. “I don’t care I don’t care I don’t care…” He raised his head and nuzzled against the tip of Bacho’s long hawk-like nose, his hot breath tickling the waiting, half-open mouth. “I don’t. _Care.”_

“Fuck—”

Before Pavel knew it Bacho’s hands were all over him and under his clothes, angry lips crushing against each other, eating each other out, a powerful, overwhelming tongue breaching his mouth, ravishing it, fucking into it. Never before had Pavel felt so many emotions at once; he was hard and desperate and longing for a hug and a good fuck, fearing for his life and Bacho’s life and it was all too much, too strong and he was losing his mind as he felt the veteran’s hardness swelling against his, hips rolling softly against his growing manhood, rocking back and forth, yearning for friction, for _him. _For his warmth, his adorable ignorance, his virginity.

He knew it then, the answer to all his questions, to his loneliness; he knew and he would smile the happiest smile if Bacho wasn’t giving his lip a savage bite sucking on his juices, swirling his tongue around his hotness, thirsty for more, thirsty for everything he had to give, every trace of his innocence, all of it. Every single drop.

He knew it and spread his legs to let Bacho’s weight sink between them, welcoming the intruder, giving in. He finally knew the answer to everything.

He was loved. He was free.


	6. Unclaimed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Pavel is shy, introverted and awkward, follows Bacho like a lost puppy and loves to be praised as he sucks Georgian dick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok but that chapter was a BITCH to write. Jesus.

_It’s happening, _Pavel thought numbly as he glanced at leafy branches waving at him through the truck window, his stomach clutching in anticipation whenever he spotted a cottage or a shed that looked good enough to shelter them.

It’s happening.

They had been driving in silence for the best part of their search for a proper hideout, Bacho with his steely blank gaze peering over the horizon, Pavel with sweaty palms dampening his tightly closed thighs, trying not to move for fear of breaking the spell and waking up back in their bleak tent with eight strangers, eight men whose names and countries he barely remembered. As the minutes flew by he realized there was no use in trying to keep still; his shoulders, now loose and mesmerized by the slow rhythm of the truck and the pleasure awaiting him, were jerking at every bump on the road, his knee bouncing against the gear. He took a deep breath closing his eyes every time he felt the urge to burst out of his straining pants.

It dawned on him when Bacho’s hand crawled up his knee, fisting at his fatigues as they drove down a road flanked by pine trees, how unique that moment was: he never had a man before. He never had anyone before. After a few miles and half a dozen deserted houses that Bacho rejected with a disdainful huff or a click of the tongue, Pavel watched his hand letting go of the gear stick to rest on his knee, stilling, waiting, letting the heat seep through the fabric. Just as Pavel thought that was enough to get him hard and wanting, enough to make him dip his head between the Georgian’s thighs and choke on his hot seed before he could even pull over, Bacho fanned out his fingers a bit more, squeezing. He was kneading into Pavel’s meat as if it was always his, that round piece of flesh, and suddenly the whole world shrunk down to those curious digits and the unsuspicious knee welcoming them.

Pavel’s jaw dropped just enough to let the air in, his eyes barely open. With the primitive need to be touched uncoiling in his gut, he spread his knees inviting Bacho’s touch to slide lower. The soldier hummed, content with the boy’s eagerness to be fondled, to be finished right there, in the middle of the road; Pacho felt meaty fingers tracing the length of his inner thigh, rubbing the folds around the groin until they reached his growing hardness circling it, massaging every inch of him but _there _before leaving him untouched and burning.

Pavel let out an unsatisfied grunt and scooted forward like a spoiled child, his knee jerking impatiently, wantingly into Bacho’s touch forcing him to slide deeper between his thighs. Bacho narrowed his eyes with a cocky, knowing smile. He withdrew his hand at once and Pavel gasped, almost angry at the loss of the tantalizing heat.

“Bacho, please…” he bit his lip opening and closing his knees.

“Oh no,” the soldier grinned, “I won’t have you making a mess in your pants before you get properly fucked, rules are rules. Maybe next time, when I get to shove you into a porta potty or behind a bush, I will work your dick like a violin because we won’t have the time and space for anything else. But today’s your lucky day, kid, you’re getting the full Bacho Treatment.”

He gave Pavel’s thigh one last playful squeeze and grabbed the steering wheel with both hands sneaking side glances at his co-driver and his delightful frustration.

_Bastard_, Pavel thought licking his lips and closed his eyes trying to focus on anything but his throbbing hard-on, hoping Bacho was as good a lover as he was a talker.

***

It didn’t take them long to find the perfect shelter. With its light blue fence, vegetable plot and attic, the yellow house looked big enough to have more than just a sink and a dirty mattress on the floor - not that Bacho would mind, he would fuck Pavel senseless in a stable if he had to.

They got out of the car and Bacho sniffed the air: the owners and their cattle seemed long gone. He pushed the gate open. They walked up to the head of the stairs and knocked adjusting their hats on their heads - an old habit. When no one answered, Bacho kicked at the lock and held the door for Pavel, giving his ass a possessive little slap as he walked past him.

Pavel searched every corner of the house making sure there were no people or animals hidden whereas Bacho went straight to the bathroom, opening and closing cupboards, cursing, emptying baskets of toiletries in the bath tub until he yelped “a ha!” and shoved his find into his pocket.

He found Pavel in a room with baby blue curtains and a small bed. On the shelves were dusty school books, toy cars, a plastic rifle and a rocket with “Volstok 1” printed on it. Bacho fiddled with the toy, a nostalgic smile lighting up his furrowed face.

“M-I-S-H-A,” he traced the boyish name that was engraved with a pocket knife on the miniature of Yuri Alekseyevich Gagarin’s spacecraft. “They had us all believe, didn’t they?” he muttered to a child that wasn’t there. “You and me both.”

When he turned to look for his own boy fearing a change of heart if they lingered too long, Pavel was standing in front of the window with his back on him. Notebooks were scattered all over the desk beside him with a small battalion made of precious lead neatly arranged on a pile of books. The toy soldiers were all standing in rows with guns in their tiny hands, waiting for their orders, ready for battle. No one had told them their owner was never coming back.

Bacho walked to the window and dragged his palm up Pavel’s back observing the toy in his hand. Pavel seemed so entranced that Bacho hoped the shiver crawling up the Boy’s skin was his doing and not innocent awe at the elaborate paint job.

“Maybe we could make one more egg basket if we had enough of those, huh?” he joked nuzzling Pavel’s chestnut hair from behind, drinking in his boyish scent as he steadied the youth’s hips against his crotch.

“I used to have toy soldiers like these when I was a kid,” Pavel recalled.

It was the first thing he said since they had entered that house, and definitely not what Bacho wanted to hear.

“I would melt lead in a pan and pour it in three different molds,” he continued even after Bacho’s fingers brushed through the back of his head searching for sensitive spots, eager to feel the fresh, untouched skin shiver under his palm. “My mother used to say it was dad’s gift before he left. I believed her for a while.”

“You wish your dad had never left, don’t you,” Bacho whispered taking off his hat and then Pavel’s, placing them carefully on the desk, one on top of the other.

“Sometimes…” Pavel said faintly. “I don’t know. I don’t quite remember him.”

“I know it hurts,” Bacho warmed the porcelain cheek with his breath as he cupped the back of Pavel’s head, pulling him into his chest. “And I know he’s not here. But I am. I can make it right.”

A lie, but it was all Bacho could think of, all he could offer in that desolate room, in the middle of the vast poisoned land.

“Do you want me to make it all right, Pavlunya?...” he breathed along Pavel’s jawline planting soft kisses on the bruised spot his punch had left, the mark of his last stand.

Pavel responded with a ragged sigh into the folds of Bacho’s neck confirming his need for everything that man had to give.

Bacho pulled back to take a good look at him, to savour the yearning blue of his eyes, the puckering mouth that was made to moan and milk and swallow. His thumb traced the pale cheek, skimmed over the curve of his lips making them part and accept him, until he reached deep into the velvet of his mouth and stayed there, waiting.

It was Pavel’s turn now.

His eyes slid shut as he closed his lips around Bacho’s finger tasting its hardness, lapping at it, sucking it. Bacho’s eyes flickered, a bolt of hot delight firing up his groin as he realized the potential of that talented mouth.

_“Mmm, _you don’t _feel_ like a virgin…” he moaned. “Are you sure you’ve never had a man before? Someone to teach you?”

With a wet pop he pulled his thumb out of Pavel’s mouth giving him permission to speak.

The Boy shook his head, a flush of pink spreading across his cheeks. “No…” he mumbled.

Bacho’s smile broadened, chocolate brown eyes glistening. “You’re beautiful,” he murmured brushing the hair out of Pavel’s eyes. “But you’re no good to me on your feet.”

He cocked Pavel’s jaw up to nibble on his lower lip and took his tongue into his mouth squeezing his lips around its wetness. Pavel responded with a needy groan and Bacho rewarded that thirsty tongue with a couple more good sucks until he felt the Boy’s drool soaking his shirt. He broke the kiss and with an appreciative hum he brushed a rough thumb over lips that were slick with spit, looking down pointedly.

“Do you want to please Daddy, Pavlunya?” he asked even if he knew the answer, his voice thick with desire. “Do you know how?”

“Y-yes,” Pavel stammered. “I think so.

“Good,” Bacho gave a satisfied nod and softly pressed down on Pavel’s shoulders. “I know you’ll be good at this,” he rasped. “On your knees, boy.”

The gentle persistent pressure on Pavel’s shoulders eased him down to the floor while Bacho, mesmerized by his readiness to obey, threaded his fingers through silky hair drawing him closer to the throbbing heat in his pants. Without letting go he slid the buckle of his belt open with his free hand and fumbled impatiently with the buttons, cursing at the tightness of the fabric.

“No no…” Pavel intervened raising his clear blue gaze to meet Bacho’s. “Let me…”

He furrowed his brow as if solving a puzzle and curled his fingers around the buttons releasing them one by one. When he was down to the last one, Bacho’s growth was already pointing at his face bulging out of the V-shaped fly, full and proud and hungry.

Pavel gave Bacho one last adoring look, his gaze dark with want, before he wrapped his lips around the clothed hardness and sucked hard.

_\-- fuck, what--_

Bacho gasped pulling at Pavel’s hair. There was no tenderness in his touch anymore. The kid was too eager, and Bacho would make him swallow if he had to, he would—

_oh god_

And then he realized there was no need for violence; with curious lips Pavel traced the fearful length sucking on the fabric, dampening it with noisy kisses until he spotted the sensitive head pulsing in Bacho’s briefs. He rubbed his nose into it circling it with his mouth, breathing in the scent of his arousal until Bacho yanked down his underwear with an angry sigh, releasing his impossibly thick manhood to the air. With a grunt he pulled Pavel’s head onto his crotch until his cock, already slick with precum, was bouncing against cherry lips probing them impatiently, demanding entrance.

Pavel made him wait no longer; taking a sharp breath in he sank his head and swallowed Bacho’s length down to the root. The soldier choked out a shocked gasp. Never in his wildest dreams had he suspected that the kid could be so aggressive, so welcoming, so _deep; _he was so incredibly deep that Bacho was panting for air as he felt his balls rubbing against Pavel’s chin. He opened his eyes just as Pavel grabbed his hips and hungrily pushed the whole of him down his throat– and what a silky wet throat that was. Tears were welling up in the corners of his eyes, cheeks happily bloating with fullness, but he wouldn’t let go - a persistence and stubbornness that made Bacho feel truly claimed for the first time. Maybe this was what the Boy offered that none of his other lovers had: the need to _own._

Bacho had never felt more wanted, more aroused.

Pavel’s mouth tightened around him as he bobbed his head up and down the pulsating girth. Bacho gave out an almost pained groan and dug his nails into Pavel’s skull driving deeper into him even if he knew he was breaking his own rule chasing an untimely release down that silky corridor, down that uniquely tight throat. But he had to know the Boy was his, he had to know he was willing to swallow, he had to--

As if agreeing with his lover, Pavel pulled the hot red cock out of his mouth and sucked on the glans noisily flicking the tip of his tongue over the slit and down the frenulum, licking the length of thick veins that were already bursting with pleasure. Bacho let out a beastly moan before he grabbed Pavel’s head with both hands and ground into him fiercely, frantically, not letting go even when he heard - or rather felt - the Boy choke around him.

The sweet mewling sound of inexperience.

It was heaven, he had never felt bigger and—

\-- and God that—

_that was bliss._

_that was – _

He exploded with a deep frightful groan into that willing mouth, the last pumps of spill spurting out in spasms of hot white pleasure. He lowered his gaze at his prize - his very own toy boy- to watch his spend trickle down Pavel’s jaw and on the floor.

_\-- had he been saving all that cum for Pavel - fuck this was so much, so fucking much, and the kid was taking it all, he--_

Bacho had never fucked such a sweet mouth before, swollen and obedient and glazed by his own thick saltiness. That was his Boy, he thought idly, that was his Pavel.

With a grunt of approval he pulled him up and kissed him roughly, fiercely, tasting his own cum in that warm deep humidity he had just defiled, rewarding the generous tongue with long lazy swipes.

“God, you’re beautiful…” he sighed into wet sticky lips, his forehead resting against Pavel’s as the mellowness of his aftershocks faded away. “So so beautiful.”

He pecked his nose, his forehead, his chin, the corners of his mouth. “You were made to swallow me, boy.” The closest to a compliment he could ever give.

They hugged in front of the window in that empty house in the middle of nowhere, free of prying eyes, free of death, they hugged as if they had always been together, war-time lovers, comrades. But even as he drowned in the aftertaste of his own selfish satisfaction Bacho couldn’t help noticing the urgency of Pavel’s kiss, the wandering hands creeping under his loose jacket, the bulging crotch straddling him, rubbing against his muscled thigh.

He slid a hand between their bodies to grab the neglected erection. “Someone’s still hard,” he chuckled slapping his hand against Pavel’s crotch.

Pavel winced in pain. Bacho wouldn’t mind seeing him beg for it after being so slutty on his knees. The Boy let his lip slip through his teeth searching the veteran’s face.

“Please, Bacho, I’m…”

With half-closed eyes Bacho jerked his head putting on a smug smile, pretending he didn’t want this as badly as Pavel did. “Say it…”

Pavel paused considering Bacho’s face. “Please…”

“Please what?”

“I want you to--”

“Want me to do what?”

Pavel shook his head, blushing. “I can’t--”

Bacho smiled; he peppered his cheek with encouraging kisses until he reached his ear, nibbling on the lobe, probing into the sensitive hole with the tip of his tongue. “If you don’t say it I won’t do it,” he teased, his voice dark with lust.

Pavel mumbled into Bacho’s jacket hiding his burning cheeks among khaki folds.

“What was that?” the older man turned his ear to Pavel’s lips.

_“—uck me, Bacho…”_

“I can’t hear you.”

“Fuck. _Me.”_

Bacho’s grin reached his ears as he licked his lips like a starving wolf. He pulled Pavel into another long kiss unbuttoning his jacket and tugging his shirt over his slender shoulders before he kicked off his own trousers.

“On your back,” he ordered when it was his turn to undress.

Pavel made for the bed but Bacho grabbed his naked arm yanking him back. “Where are you going?”

“Shouldn’t we be doing this on the be—"

“I don’t need a bed to fuck you into next week, boy,” Bacho growled, hot breath brushing over Pavel’s ear. “On your back.”

Pavel blinked a couple of times before realizing what he was being ordered to do. With a hint of a smile playing on his lips he lay obediently on the floor digging his hands into the slack of his pants.

“No, that’s for me,” Bacho said.

He unlaced Pavel’s boots, pulled hard and flung them across the room before he knelt between sprawled-out legs to yank down the Boy’s trousers. Pavel raised his hips just enough to let the fabric slide free and was left with his briefs on, perfectly white and perfectly tented by his erection to the point that the fly hole was gaping open. Bacho snuck his fingers into the opening and gently pulled out Pavel’s cock that was now flushed and thick, twitching impatiently in his hands.

He gave it a long generous swipe from base to tip flicking his tongue over the slit, tasting, teasing, sucking on the wrinkled skin, circling the crown again and again until he had Pavel writhing and panting and arching his back in despair.

“FUCK, Bacho, _please!” _he cried out.

“Greedy boy…” Bacho smiled over the smooth swollen tip getting the fastest hard-on of his life as he watched his young lover lose control.

And then he took him all in.

Pavel gasped out a moan as he blindly clutched thick raven hair and thrusted like a madman into that hot humidity.

For all his preparedness Bacho saw stars and quickly pulled Pavel’s cock out of his mouth, fisting its base harshly.

_“What_ are you doing?” he grumbled. “I said you’re not coming unless you’re stuffed with my meat, is that clear?”

Pavel perked up, panic in his eyes, making Bacho freeze - he had seen that look before. He had seen it but not on a human.

Memories came rushing back in a whirlwind of guilt. Somehow he had to let go, leave it all behind, at least for as long as their intimacy lasted. When they would exit that house he could go back to hating himself but for now--

With a reassuring smile he stroked Pavel’s milky-white thigh. “You’ll be a good boy now, yes?” his voice softened.

Pavel gave an obedient nod, tongue darting out to moisten dry lips.

Bacho turned back to the flustered member that was now leaving a damp stain on the white underwear. He tugged down Pavel’s briefs until they were crumpled around his ankle and licked his head clean probing just under the sweet spot of his ridge, savouring the desperate moans and clenched fists before deciding to stop torturing this poor puppy; without a warning he glided the sting of his tongue down Pavel’s sac grinding into it as if searching for a hole that wasn’t there, tugging at the frail skin with his mouth like his life depended on it until he reached the precious little hole that was about to be filled to the brim.

How he longed to lose himself into those forbidden folds. All for him. All of it.

He shoved his tongue into the Boy (his shaft twitching with want at the surprised _AH _that he ripped out of Pavel’s lips) and kept fucking him with each push, licking and licking into him until he had him begging, squirming in his arms, his tongue almost hurting by the twitching tightness sucking him in. Sucking and sucking and--

_Enough._

He stood on his knees to reach for his trousers on the floor and dipped his hand into the pocket for his bathroom find. He unscrewed the jar and swiped a hefty amount of Vaseline with two fingers that he slid down Pavel’s perineum, rubbing tiny circles into the sensitive spot under his balls just enough to make him writhe with pleasure.

“You like that?” he asked with a confident smile.

_one circle_

_two circles_

_three--_

_look at his balls tightening he’ll be thrashing about any second now_

“Oh fuck, Bacho, this is—"

Before Pavel could finish his sentence Bacho grabbed his shoulder and rolled him on his chest.

“I want to see that pretty little ass of yours, c’mon,” he groaned tugging him by his hip on his hands and knees. Pavel could do nothing but obey.

Bacho traced the puckered entrance adoringly slipping two fingers in, tearing a muffled yelp from the Boy’s lips, then a deep sigh. He crooked his digits just enough to hit his prostate as he lubricated the walls, working the virgin muscles gently until they were loose enough to have him. He rested his hands on sweaty hips, steadied himself between Pavel’s legs and rubbed his tip up and down his crack, measuring him, taking a beat to relish the naked young body before ruining it.

Pavel bucked up against him and reached back to spread his ass cheeks with one hand, stretching the deep-red slit; Bacho felt his length leaking at the sight of the gaping entrance as he slicked his own member with Vaseline, stroking himself to full hardness.

It was then that Pavel twisted his head to meet his eyes.

“Take me, Daddy,” he purred cocking his ass, “take m-- _UH!...”_

Bacho had never slammed so brutally into an asshole before - none of the men or women he had fucked in his life had the honour of being so full of him, so quickly. He was savaging Pavel’s walls with furious thrusts, pump after pump after pump until he could hear his balls slapping against the Boy’s sweaty thighs. He reached down to grab his hair and pulled so hard that Pavel clenched around him in pure shock. How he loved it though, the tightness and the friction of a newly-fucked ass and the precious little sobs, proof that someone was being thoroughly defiled.

Oh he couldn’t stop, he _wouldn’_t stop before he saw his own cum dribbling possessively, triumphantly out of that impertinent hole that was sucking the life out of him; Pavel was his now and he was Pavel’s, and he couldn’t tell who was who anymore.

“Do you like Daddy’s dick pounding inside of you, do you want his milk?” A feverish whisper against Pavel’s back. “Do you want it, baby?”

_“Ugh – _y-yes…”

“Tell me what you want, baby boy.”

“You’re tearing me apart, _FUCK--”_

“Want me to stop?” Bacho panted, his impossibly swollen cock sliding out completely.

_A rightful punishment._

“No. No please, I’m—” Pavel wiggled his ass and sank his head between his elbows in submission.

Bacho glided his palm between his shoulder blades calming him, encouraging him. “You need to say the words, Pavlunya, or there will be no more sweets,” he urged him palming his balls, squeezing, massaging, playing with the weight of them between his fingers as he gave him a good dirty stroke tugging his foreskin over the head. “I’m listening.”

Pavel gulped down hard, his throat dry with want. _“Fuck me, Daddy...”_

Bacho felt a pearl of precum sliding down his tip; he had never felt so horny, so claimed. It was time.

“That’s my boy.”

With one unbroken thrust he drove mercilessly into Pavel.

_“AH!!!”_

“Oh God, you couldn’t have been tighter,” Bacho growled not expecting to have the life squeezed out of him so fiercely, “you’re- you’re taking Daddy’s dick so well, so… well... _Ah.”_

He pressed his fingers around the nape of Pavel’s neck and pulled hard – no time to be the patient teacher he had imagined himself to be – almost bending him in half. Pavel yowled in pain only to find his rhythm, _Bacho’s_ rhythm, after a few thrusts and slammed back against the older man’s hips.

It was heaven and it was sinful and Bacho the Butch couldn’t figure out what a cynical bastard like him had done in his miserable life to deserve such bliss.

He dug his nails into Pavel’s plump meat and pulled out just enough to watch his dick, now glistening with Vaseline and their fluids, pump in and out of snow-white ass cheeks. Pavel’s ring stretched and dragged on his cock every time Bacho retreated before sheathing back into him, stabbing his core, impaling him.

“You’re such a good boy taking me all in,” he rasped stroking Pavel’s back lovingly, “you should see yourself stretched out around me.” He knew his words had _some_ impact on the Boy because Pavel bucked feverishly into his cock filling the room with the obscene slapping of skin against skin. “You were made for this, Pavel,” he groaned encouragingly, “you’re -_uh -_perfect, so damn perfect.”

Pavel was unable to give a coherent answer to his praise – he was lost in their joint movement, his palms and knees reddening as they dragged back and forth, back and forth against the wooden floor.

_Time to finish him, _Bacho thought.

He yanked him up into his lap and wrapped an arm around his chest gripping his shoulder to steady him on his cock. He curled a strong fist around his hard-on twisting his wrist to lengthen the pleasure.

Pavel’s sighs got quick and shallow.

“Just breathe,” Bacho urged him brushing his nose along the rim of his ear, “that’s… _oh-- _you’re taking me in so good, baby, so fucking deep, I knew you could do this, I knew you—”

“Fuck me, yes, harder…”

Bacho had to hold himself from spilling into him as he heard those filthy words filling the room; still, he was never one to give in to impulse. He kept jerking Pavel in time with his thrusts until he felt his sac tightening in his hand. A little more, just a little--

“Look at your hole sucking me to the balls,” he breathed trying to stay true to his promise, that Pavel had to be properly fucked before he was pushed over the edge. “Oh God oh fuck you’re beautiful, you’re… so… - _UGH_\- beautiful… my beautiful _beautiful_ boy… oh you’re so tight, my Pavlunya so so —_ Oh…"_

He nudged his hips forward, angling himself in a way that had Pavel sobbing helplessly as he let his head fall back on his shoulder. Bacho kissed and licked and drank in his whimpers and sighs and suddenly the Boy tensed in his embrace, his chest heaving under strong steady arms as he cried out his release, shooting uncontrollably his thick white load all over the place.

Bacho hadn’t made a man come in ages, let alone a boy, and it was hard not to get blown away by the sheer intensity of it, the thrill of having so much power over another man’s body, of watching him come undone. Pavel was too young, too innocent, too filled with his thickness.

Too loud.

Bacho kept fucking him through his spasms knowing he wouldn’t last too long himself. He took his hand from Pavel’s dick that was now coated with his slick and shoved two fingers into his still moaning mouth.

“I’m gonna come inside your ass, okay?” he warned as he muffled Pavel’s last whimpers, “don’t pull away.”

He pushed Pavel forward slamming his shoulder blades down and hammered into him viciously, grinding him into the floor, slapping his ass to get more tightness, more friction from his shocked contractions.

He could feel the sweetness peaking, filling his groin, the eruption of his senses threatening to swallow him whole as the deafening drum of his own pulse filled his ears.

“I’ll have you walk around with my load inside of you,” he rumbled, “that_\--AH-- _that’s it, s-stay there -- oh baby boy oh Pavlunya, oh _fuck--”_

He was almost there, one more push, one more spasm and--

_the boy is mine the boy is mine the boy is mi—_

oh Go—

_-oh god pavel my pavel-_

_my—_

_oh_

\--and then he was filling him up completely.

He let out a groan that was deep and loud and fierce as he drove one last time into his own spill forcing strings of cum to dribble out of Pavel’s wrecked hole, claiming him, marking him; he was Bacho’s boy now, his secret, his precious little puppy.

The Georgian clenched his eyes shut, his chest bursting with something beyond pleasure, beyond heaven, something he had forgotten a long time ago.

It was peace.

As his breathing slowed down pant after satisfied pant, his member softening inside Pavel, he pulled out gently pushing himself up from his back, running a soft hand down his spine. Pavel wobbled and collapsed on the floor huffing out a sigh of sweet relief. Sweat was pooling on the small of his back, the sparkle of it catching Bacho’s eye.

He wanted to ask him if he had hurt him, if it was all too much, if the spot he had left on his chin was still accusingly purple or if it had begun to fade already.

Pavel rolled on his back swiping the sweat from his forehead, his other hand placed on his almost adolescent, hairless stomach, cock laying flaccid on his thigh.

Bacho crawled on his hands and knees beside him and took a beat to gaze into the unblinking, impenetrable blue of his eyes. He wanted to ask him so many things - about his father, his mother, his life before Chernobyl. His dreams, his nightmares, his favourite movies.

He wanted to know everything, shower him with questions, and felt bad for not having asked before- but he was only good at shouting orders, setting rules, spitting out threats and insults. He would gladly ask him how he was feeling, how he had _made_ him feel, the simplest of questions, but as he lay beside him brushing sweaty strands out of his eyes, words seemed weak and dull and pointless. Words were stupid, words had no meaning.

So he kissed him instead.


	7. Desert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Bacho on the floor, his fingers through Pavel's hair.

It was a fleeting image, like a dream from another life Pavel could hardly remember.

_sand _

He gazed at the specks of light flickering on Bacho’s closed eyelids as the two of them lay on the floor with their limbs entwined, breath against breath, raven black curls mixing with his own chestnut strands.

_He’s like the desert, _he realized as the heat from Bacho’s body draped him like a warm summer day: endless, sun-kissed, the furrows on his forehead no different than ripples on sand.

_Unforgiving. _

Pavel could go every distance, crawl all over his vastness for years and years without ever touching the truth of him, the end of him. Even after they had made love on that floor Bacho looked distant, forbidding.

And yet so utterly thrilling.

As his gaze travelled from the thickness of his lover’s hair to the soft curve of his lips, Pavel couldn’t imagine going back to where he came from. For weeks he had been living in a warzone, a dead zone, an endless nightmare where he was killing innocent souls day in day out and, if rumours were true, the radiation they were absorbing gave them less than a couple of years to live.

Still, as Bacho fell asleep in his arms, he realized he had never felt safer before.

Would he choose to go back to Kiev if he was dismissed tomorrow? He didn’t have an answer to that. All he knew was that he didn’t want this to end. He wasn’t missing home anymore; home was here, on that floor, in those sleeping arms.

As if hearing a shot Bacho jerked and gasped, his arms spasming spontaneously then falling back on Pavel’s bare shoulders, seeking refuge on his softness.

After a few shallow intakes of breath he raised his head before letting it fall back again. “What-what happened…” he snorted.

Pavel chuckled chewing on his lip. “You fell asleep.”

“Oh…” Bacho rubbed an eye with the heel of his palm. He took a deep breath flaring his nostrils before turning back to the pale blue-eyed face that was patiently waiting for him to come back from the land of short afternoon naps.

“How long have I been sleeping?” he yawned loudly.

“I don’t know,” Pavel shrugged, “ten, fifteen minutes?”

Bacho grunted. “You should have woken me up, boy.”

“Why?”

“I never sleep over on the first date, I have a smoke and then I piss off,” he grumbled scratching his head. “We must both piss off, they’ll be looking.”

Pavel felt a wicked smile rising on his lips. “Is this what _this_ was?”

Bacho took a beat to gawk at him, mesmerized.

“First date, first fuck, it’s the same to me,” he quipped finally and with a second yawn he pulled Pavel into his arms so fiercely that the boy felt the air squeezed out of his lungs.

Pavel hummed another smile into his chest tracing his collarbone with light kisses. He wasn’t planning on going anywhere, not unless he got enough of Bacho’s scent to save for the long night that lay ahead of them when they’d be sleeping apart, with far too many cots and snoring soldiers separating them. The mere thought was unbearable.

“I’ve never seen you do _that_ before.” A gentle murmur in Pavel’s hair, a changed voice, hoarse yet tender. Vulnerable.

“Do what?”

Bacho didn’t answer right away; maybe there was some magic in the air that he didn’t want to spoil. Maybe “that” was so precious, so rare, that he was afraid he might jinx it just by naming it.

“Smile,” he explained in a whisper so faint that could hardly be heard.

It had never occurred to Pavel that his smile was a thing to be cherished. He would shrug if Bacho’s iron hold wasn’t keeping him tightly in place.

“I guess I didn’t have a good reason,” he muttered.

“Do you have a good reason now?” he heard Bacho saying, long calloused fingers threading through his hair.

Instead of a response Pavel pulled back from his embrace to leave a trail of thick noisy kisses on his skin; he worked his way up the olive-skinned sternum, humming and moaning while the veteran’s hand pressed down into his hair as if their two bodies were to become one. When he reached Bacho’s half-open mouth he stopped to contemplate its depths, biting his lip playfully.

“What do you think?”

There was mischief in his sapphire eyes and he could tell by the dark entranced gaze eating him and the eager nudging against his thigh that Bacho would gladly spend the night buried deep inside him.

***

They would have tasted each other again if they didn’t have to get up and catch the light.

They put their clothes on hastily and when Bacho reached for their hats on the desk Pavel wrapped his arms around him from behind, fearing he might never touch him again. Bacho let his head hang as he heaved a sigh; he grabbed Pavel’s wrists to loosen his grip.

“We must go,” he said with a broken voice. “Come on…”

Pavel let his hands slide off Bacho pouting like a puppy in the rain as the man turned to press the hat down to his ears before putting on his own.

The Georgian placed his fists on his hips, letting out a deep thoughtful sigh as he noticed Pavel's lost expression. He pulled him in his embrace again, clutching his arms tightly.

“You’ll get properly fucked again,” he muttered into his ear, “that’s a promise.”

Like a man true to his word he sought out Pavel’s mouth, licking his lips open until he was breathing him in, swirling his tongue around Pavel's.

The youth leaned forward, hungry for one more sinful kiss, but Bacho pulled back, softly holding his shoulders in a safe distance. Without taking his eyes off the boy he shoved a hand into his pocket and drew out a pack of cigarettes. He pulled out two, put them in his mouth to light them, then gave one to Pavel.

“I don’t smoke,” Pavel shook his head.

“You’ll smoke now,” Bacho insisted extending his arm.

Pavel placed the cigarette between his two fingers hesitantly, inspected it from all sides and took a drag. Instantly he curled in two, coughing his lungs out.

Bacho burst into giggles. “Not so quickly, you’ll choke yourself to death,” he warned pushing his own cigarette between his lips. “Small puffs, Jesus…”

When Pavel was back to breathing normally Bacho traced the violet blot his fist had left on the boy’s chin a few hours ago, when they were driving aimlessly around abandoned villages. Pavel winced at the touch.

Bacho knitted his brow, an apology wasn’t his style. Advice was.

“When we go back tell them I punched you because you shot a dog in the belly,” he said. “Teach you a lesson.”

Pavel nodded.

Bacho cupped the bruised cheek, his face beaming with joy.

He grabbed two toy soldiers from the desk and pushed them into his pocket jerking his head. “Let’s go.”

When they got back into the truck the setting sun was colouring the trees and bushes with a soft golden light. Through the window Pavel gazed at the blue fence of the house that had sheltered their secret and hoped he wasn’t going to miss that house for long, or other houses like it. Still, he couldn’t help smiling at the moment they had shared behind those closed curtains, a moment so intense yet so short that it was already becoming a memory.

The roaring of the engine pulled him back to the present.

“Don’t smile too much when we get to the camp,” Bacho grunted stepping on the gas, his lips pursed around the cigarette as he placed the soldiers on the dashboard. “They’ll figure it out.”


	8. Garo

Dusk found Garo sitting on his barrel outside tent 181, the air that played with his hair filling his nostrils with the scent of pine and dirt. He was peeling an apple with his pocket knife, grateful that he was alive to see another day come to an end as he gazed lazily at the light on the tents going orange, then indigo, then blue. He had driven off with a different group of hunters that morning and had shared his kolbasa with a couple of newcomers, scrawny Belarussian boys with barely-there whiskers and a dreadful sense of humour. He had tried to laugh with their scarce and pitiful jokes, one of them even reminded him of Igor, but after a while he gave up on any attempt at a conversation and pretended that he was deaf in one ear and stubbornly Armenian in the other.

Having no one to talk to (or talk his ears off) he made daisy garlands for the rest of the day, cleaned his rifle, opened a can of beans and carved a dog out of a piece of wood he had found next to the pit where they buried the animals they had brought in the truck. He figured he could give the toy to Pavel (it was quite detailed and he always took pride in his wooden miniatures) but he feared that even that small gesture could bring tears to the Cub’s eyes. Pavel didn’t have any use for fake animals, he reckoned, all he wanted was to not have to kill any real ones for weeks on end and no miniature could ever compensate for that.

Still, he had to give the toy to someone.

_Igor would have appreciated it._

Blonde, blue-eyed, cupid-like Igor.

He let out a deep sigh recalling the day Pavel arrived in their tent, fresh-faced and ignorant in his baggy civilian clothes, pale and fragile as porcelain. Had he not mentioned his age, had he not appeared in a camp meant for boys dreaming of becoming men, Garo would have easily mistaken him for a student. All he was missing was a stack of books and ink stains on his bitten-off nails.

Garo felt a cheeky smile blooming on his lips as he remembered someone’s first reaction: that Georgian asshole jolted out of his cot the moment he heard a young voice, lighting a cigarette before even shaking the boy’s hand, like a man in a bar checking out the cute newcomer. Garo had clicked his tongue at Bacho’s eagerness (had he not learned?) and he would have shaken his head in disapproval if he wasn’t certain he’d get a smack in the head. 

But that was before he got to know Pavel, before he saw him around Bacho.

For all his timidity, Pavel had instantly shown with a side glance his disdain for smoke, the same look he had when he caught Bacho smoking a joint over the fire a few nights ago. Garo had also noticed the Kiev-born newcomer wincing at Bacho’s long and tight handshake, childlike fingers being crushed by the veteran’s inexplicable enthusiasm.

Maybe Bacho wanted to correct the wrongs of the past with Pavel, give himself a second chance.

He hadn’t been the same since his last mistake. Not that Garo cared for his welfare or his cries of agony long after everyone had fallen asleep, but it was hard not to notice the wrinkles around his eyes deepening after Igor’s death. When the Cub arrived, there were no more cries waking Garo in the middle of the night; maybe Bacho had gotten used to the idea that he was partly responsible for Igor's death.

Or maybe it was Pavel, the Ukrainian youth who had been sent to join them in their journey to a slow torturous death. What was that boy thinking when he enlisted? Perhaps nothing at all.

Bacho seemed overly enthusiastic though. Whenever Garo saw his eyes sparkle with rage (or an unhealthy amount of curiosity) he knew something was up; he knew he was in for a treat whether it was a session of bloody fisticuffs or the drunken confession of deeply hidden longing with a pinch of ugly crying on his shoulder.

They had done this before, Garo reading Bacho like an open book and Bacho denying everything before spewing it all out over a bottle of vodka. Strangely enough, the Georgian hadn’t told him a word about Pavel. Perhaps he was getting better at this.

Still, not good enough for Garo’s keen eyes.

He sucked on a slice of his apple listening to the roaring engine of a truck coming to a stop. Had the lover of daisies and wooden miniatures missed them, the Asshole and the Cub? Maybe he had, just a little. Not that he’d ever admit that to the Asshole but the two of them were the closest he had to a family in that camp. He still had a mother to send letters to and a girl who liked to brag to the neighbours about her cheap engagement ring, but neither of them would ever know what it was like to kill animals that ran to them for food, only to get a bullet in the head because some idiots had blown up a reactor in a town they had never heard of.

Pavel and Bacho knew that feeling all too well.

Nothing could bring people together like war, Garo pondered.

Steps dragging through the mud pulled him out of the dark meanders of his mind; Bacho and the boy had just come back from their unusually long ride to the dirty villages. The two of them exchanged a glance and a swift nod before Pavel, his pale face blank as ever, strode hastily past Garo who couldn’t help seeing a barely noticeable limp in his step. When Pavel came back he sat down carefully, knees bending like an old man with arthritis, lips tight, and poured some vodka into his cup. 

Bacho was just as silent as Pavel, a fact that alarmed the Armenian who was used to putting up with the Asshole’s lame jokes, his speeches and unsolicited insults whenever they sat down for a drink, a smoke or a bite. The Bacho he knew would always fill the void with his incessant blabbering, more often than not lecturing him on politics and women.

But this wasn’t the Bacho he knew.

Something was off, something Garo couldn’t put his finger on. He narrowed his eyes peering through the dark, inspecting them inch by inch until he settled on their hat pins: Pavel’s was round like his own and Bacho was wearing the Soviet star. It would all be perfectly fine (and Garo would have shaken off the thought that had been bugging him ever since he had overheard them whispering in the dark of their tent) if Pavel was wearing the hat with the star.

Instead he was wearing the hat from Afghanistan.

Bacho’s hat.

One more time Garo peeked at his comrade, then the boy, turning his head from one to the other, blinking, chewing slowly like a stupefied cow, trying to figure out if he was imagining things. Pavel kept silent as usual taking sips from his cup and wincing every time vodka slid down his throat while Bacho took long drags from his cigarette puffing out the smoke casually, looking anywhere but into Garo’s eyes.

The Armenian glared at them both. Since neither of them seemed willing to start a conversation (or at least explain where the fuck they had been since morning), he raised his brows and let out a resigned sigh shoving a huge juicy slice into his mouth.

So they were _there._ So they had crossed that line.

He shrugged to himself.

_Whatever, _said part of him.

_Finally, _said the other part.

He munched his apple as words got mixed in his tongue forming nothing but a half-hearted yet distinguishable mumble.

_“About fucking time...” _

He didn’t raise his head, he didn’t have to; it was enough to hear Pavel’s breath catch and picture Bacho responding with a panicked look as the cigarette slipped from his lips and landed on the mud between paralyzed feet.

_What total idiots._

Garo rested his forearms on his knees, his head hanging so as to conceal a chuckle that was threatening to burst out of his chest like a volcano.

They were trying to hide from _him. _

The nerve.

“Shut the fuck up, Garo,” Bacho grunted warningly through gritted teeth.

“But I didn’t say anything,” Garo half complained trying hard not to roll on the ground, giggling until he ran out of breath.

“Exactly,” Bacho groaned fixing a dark gaze on him. “Keep it that way.”


	9. Daisies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Garo and daisies and Bacho.
> 
> A big big thank you to whoever sent me this anon ask and kicked me out of my writer's block.

Bacho hadn’t had such a deep restful sleep in months. He felt warm under the blanket, complete, and his head was so light that he could swear his limbs were floating, hovering over the flea-ridden cot as if every worry, every regret, every nightmare in his life had been surgically removed from his brain. He was feeling cleansed and pure, an almost angel-like sensation, even if he knew that the minute he opened his eyes he’d be sucked back into one of the grimmest realities he had ever been complicit in.

He wanted none of this, he thought as his luscious dream melted away, he was done. No guns, no killings, no smelly soldiers as far as the eye could see. No stale vodka aftertaste from morning to evening, no mud in his boots. All he wanted was a warm body in his arms and his lungs filled with the sweet scent of fresh skin.

For a moment, the illusion of having someone near him felt too real. Even if he thought he knew happiness once, it was nothing like this.

The rising sun was quickly heating up the tent turning the air into suffocating steam and the camp’s harsh reality crept in through the sound of distant chattering and heavy footsteps. Soon Bacho’s senses began stimulating each numb limb bringing him to full consciousness, the nerves at the tip of his nose sending signals of an itch, an intrusion.

_Fucking mosquitoes._

He slapped his nose grunting like a bear barely out of hibernation before his hand fell and stilled on his chest, half-paralyzed from long hours of sleep. A husky chuckle on his left side and a stifled boyish giggle on his right reached his ears piercing through the silence like chirping birds.

Yet his eyelids refused to open.

Another itch, another mosquito.

He slapped harder, catching the insect (or rather the straw that had been tickling his nose) and something as cool and pointy as leaves slid down his forehead. He reached up and felt the softness of stems and petals.

“What the--”

He opened one eye to inspect whatever it was that had ended up on his head while he was sweetly dreaming of savaging Pavel in his little room in Kiev.

_Daisies. A daisy garland in his hair._

“What the actual _FUCK.”_

He sat up swiftly and turned his head from side to side like a shark smelling blood, searching for the culprit with still bleary eyes.

He was looking for one asshole.

He found two.

“Garo, you motherfucking--”

Garo’s unstoppable cackling drowned Bacho’s final insults; the Armenian was on his knees next to the cot, curled in two and clutching his ribs as the air shot out of his lungs in howls of laughter. Bacho turned to the other side: Pavel was in a similar state, showing off cheeky dimples as he turned bright red with each gurgle of laughter. Finally free to enjoy the prank, the Boy collapsed on the floor with both knees falling on the side, shaking from head to toe, shaking and chortling until his eyes welled up with tears.

He was a mess, a happy sniggering mess.

Bacho glared at them both before turning to the daisy garland in his hands. “You idiots find this funny?” he scowled.

“Hy-_sterical,”_ Garo affirmed as he wiped the corner of his eye with his knuckle, trying to take deep breaths before giving in to giggles again. He squeezed the bridge of his nose, practically weeping.

“C’mon,” Pavel chirped getting up from the floor and knee walked toward Bacho who was still holding the flowers, speechless, “Garo made one for me too.” He took his own daisy garland and placed it on his head. The white petals and green leaves framing his pallid face made him look as frail and otherworldly as a pixie.

“I know married couples who would _kill_ for wedding crowns like these,” Garo bragged folding his arms across his chest, the smirk on his weathered face a perfect mixture of praise and mockery.

Pavel took the garland from Bacho’s hands and placed it back on his curly head.

He bit his lip mischievously. “My fairy king,” he teased while clear blue eyes glinted with pride.

“Call me a fairy one more time and I’ll shoot you in the leg,” Bacho growled.

As soon as the threat shot out of his mouth, regret pinched at his stomach: he didn’t mean it. Not this time.

He took a beat to contemplate the pure joy in Pavel’s face and a sigh escaped his lips; he couldn’t possibly stay mad at his Boy. With a casual gesture that betrayed little of his yearning to touch him again, taste him, take him in his arms and never let him go, he brushed rough fingers through Pavel’s hair messing it up. If a random soldier happened to enter their tent, he wouldn’t see anything more than brotherly affection.

“It seems this _is_ our goal, after all,” Garo muttered, a tint of melancholy lighting up the deep darkness of his eyes.

“What is?” Bacho said without turning, his fingers still threaded through Pavel’s hair as he gave the back of his head a gentle massage.

Garo shrugged as if the answer was staring them in the face.

“Happiness.”


	10. Crumbs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: jealous Bacho.

“That’s it?” Bacho grumbled, glaring pointedly at his tin pot that was steaming with some thick and sticky substance of undefinable colour and dubious origin.

The cook, a chubby Lithuanian with rosy cheeks and a bushy mustache, looked up feigning surprise. “Oh sorry, we’re fresh out of caviar,” he joked stirring his vat.

“I don’t want caviar dammit,” Bacho growled, “I want some proper food, Matis, where’s the meat?”

“We had meat two weeks ago, don’t be greedy,” Matis mumbled pouring broth to the soldier next to Bacho.

“You can’t be serious…” the veteran shook his head.

Indeed, the last time he had eaten beef was two weeks ago – and that was not the only kind of flesh he had savoured that day. The void in his stomach was nothing compared to the unsated need in his loins.

“The vendors didn’t send any meat this week,” the cook shrugged, “only vegetables, bread and vodka.”

“And we’re supposed to clean up this shithole living on vegetables, bread and vodka?”

“Why don’t you and your buddies go hunting?” Matis proposed gesturing at a table over Bacho’s shoulder. “You guys are hunters, right? I hear there are rabbits and deer in the woods.”

Bacho glowered at him curling his lip in disgust. “And _I_ hear radiation makes them even yummier.”

“Maybe you should ask your momma to send you some kupati sausage all the way from Georgia, huh?” Matis winked at him licking soup off his thumb. “Or your _girlfriend.”_

Bacho stood speechless. Instead of an angry retort, he turned to peer at the table where Garo and Pavel were sitting, wondering if they were as frustrated with their food as he was. He felt betrayed by what he saw: Garo had already plunged his spoon into his broth lapping it up hungrily. Pavel was perking up as if sniffing the air, hands on both sides of his tin pot, waiting for Bacho to join them.

“This is bullshit, man…” Bacho mumbled watching the cook serve another soldier.

“Oh wait, how about filing a complaint to Major Tarakanov _himself?”_ Matis teased. “Lucky you, he’s inspecting the camp today and seems to be in a great mood.”

He jerked his head toward a company of army officials swarming around a man whose long face, stature and piercing eyes exuded authority. Everyone was eager to share a handshake with the towering major and, for all the fatigue visible in the hard lines framing his features, he seemed genuinely happy to oblige.

“Fuck off, Matis…” Bacho groaned and dragged his feet toward the table where his boys were sitting.

As soon as he placed his hat and pot on the table, he ran a finger over the bench where he was supposed to sit.

“Fucking wet,” he slurred.

“Well,” Garo shrugged, “it rained yesterday.”

“Now we’re supposed to hunt for our daily food and wipe the tables ourselves?”

“I don’t remember you complaining in Afghanistan,” Garo muttered scraping the bottom of the pot for the last grains of rice.

“We’re in Soviet soil, dammit, Mother Russia should be taking care of us,” Bacho lashed out.

_“Someone hasn’t fucked in a loooong time,”_ Garo muttered under his breath, glancing around but nowhere near the Georgian’s forbidding stare.

Not so long ago Bacho would have him pick up his teeth with broken fingers for that cute little comment of his, but now the Boy was watching, waiting for him to sit down and eat. Besides he wasn’t angry anymore. Clear cobalt eyes fixed on him and him alone could have that effect on the hardened soldier, bringing peace and calm even when the world was falling apart around them. 

He glanced at Pavel sitting across the table, suddenly embarrassed that he was cranky and impatient for no reason. “Yeah let’s eat…” he slurred and dipped his spoon into the soup.

Soon enough he saw, heard and felt nothing but the hot thick liquid sliding down his throat as every mouthful made him long for the next, fearing his portion wouldn’t be enough to fill him up. He would gladly fight Matis and everyone in that camp for one more potful but that was easier said than done; his feet felt like lead keeping him stuck on his bench.

“Bread, is there any bread?” he mumbled as he licked his teeth for the last traces of broth, clenching his fists on the table nervously.

“What did you do with yours?” Garo asked lighting a cigarette.

“I _ate_ it,” Bacho snarled.

“Here, have mine,” Pavel chuckled and threw a crumb at him.

“What--”

Before Bacho could duck, a second crumb bounced off his nose. “What are you--” he yelped crossing his forearms in front of his face.

Pavel gave a chortle and cut off a larger chunk of bread – that one flew straight into Bacho’s thick hair and stayed there. Pavel guffawed at the dangling crumb making Bacho feel even more ridiculous; he tried to brush it off but he was too slow, Pavel was already showering him with little pieces of crust until there was nothing left of his slice. Now the Georgian’s head looked like a tree in winter. 

Finally stripped of his “ammo”, Pavel bent over the table banging his fist, his eyes filling with tears of laughter, while Garo chuckled through little puffs and pfft’s coughing out smoke.

Bacho glowered at them both.

Enough was enough. The pup had it coming.

With an angry roar he sprang to his feet, grabbed Pavel by the belt and dragged him over the table to his side. Without a moment’s delay Garo shoved the cigarette back into his mouth and snatched the mugs and the vodka to rescue them from Pavel’s jerking feet.

Bacho squeezed an arm around the laughing boy’s neck with enough strength to hold him down without choking him and with a groan he pulled him to the edge of the bench so that his head would hang midair. Pavel’s hat fell on the mud as he begged and laughed and cursed, and he made so much noise that every soldier sitting nearby stopped eating just to gawk and snigger at them. He stomped on the bench with his boots, squirming and thrashing while Bacho tickled his ribs, his chest, his belly until he hauled him over his lap, secretly grunting with satisfaction with every jerk of Pavel’s body against his crotch. He would kiss him, suck him, fuck him right there and then if he could, eat out his tongue, leave him breathless, half-naked and spent on that very bench. Everything he needed in his life was on his lap, every desire, every dream, every hope.

And oh, that beautiful mouth, giggling and pleading and waiting to be claimed once more - so sinfully close, yet so far away.

Suddenly Bacho felt the silence falling heavy around him. He lifted his eyes. Garo had stopped laughing, instead he was throwing wary glances at the other tables. Pavel, unaware of the ruckus he had raised, kept writhing like a captured animal in Bacho’s strong hold, giggling and panting.

Bacho followed the Armenian’s unflinching stare until he spotted the reason behind his stillness: Janek, the blonde Estonian sitting at the table on the other side of the aisle, was staring at the man and his cub chewing his bread slowly. Many soldiers were gazing or pointing at Bacho’s table jokingly but Janek and his buddies were the only ones who seemed neither annoyed nor amused. Their faces were blank, unreadable.

Bacho felt his heart clench in his chest as a young angelic face flashed through his mind.

_Igor._

He let go of Pavel; the youth sat up, picked up his hat and brushed back his messed-up hair.

“Hey Janek,” the Georgian yelped, “everything alright?”

The Estonian turned to his comrades mumbling something Bacho couldn’t hear.

They all laughed.

“Yes, everything's alright,” he nodded finally, a reptilian smirk blooming on his round face.

_“Good,” _Bacho snarled, his steely eyes fixed on him. “Okay, boys, time to go." He waved at his men to get up.

Pavel looked at him questioningly as Bacho rose to his feet and grabbed the empty pot and mug throwing one last threatening glance at Janek and his friends; he then turned to Garo for answers but the Armenian shot a stern warning glance at him, making him shut up instantly.

Bacho stomped off feeling the tickling sensation of Janek’s eyes on his back.

_Their_ backs.

He allowed himself to take a deep breath only after they had left the kitchen behind them. It wasn’t fear that was making him lose control; it was rage. If that cocksucking Estonian even considered breathing toward Pavel’s general direction he swore he’d turn that pretty face of his inside out. 

_Kill him in his sleep, yeah, that would do the trick. _

Instinctively, he curled his fingers around the NRS-2 on his hip, the hardness of its steel blade providing some much-needed reassurance. Thankfully the pup didn’t seem to have noticed Janek’s drooling stare. _His_ pup.

As they approached their tent, he felt something rolling down his cheek - another crumb. With a frustrated moan he brushed both hands through tangled hair shaking his head like a dog. Pavel turned to look at him and burst out laughing again.

Bacho glanced around making sure no one was watching and the next moment he was jumping and tugging at his arm, squeezing hard as he dragged thirsty lips over his ear.

“I’m gonna fuck you mercilessly for that,” he breathed, his voice thick with desire.


	11. Soap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garo is worried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super angsty. Be prepared because "real life" and "real problems" come marching in.

“Soap from Tallinn, can you fucking believe it?” Bacho bragged rubbing his chest with the pink fragrant bar as water slid down his back in white bubbly streams.

Garo leaned back against a pole, arms folded across the chest as he let his head drop, the brim of his hat blocking out the rising sun. He didn’t feel like taking a shower himself; it was too early, too cold, and his stomach was already tied in a knot. He didn't need the morning chill creeping into his bones too.

“I don’t have to ask where you found that, do I?” he mumbled.

“Where I find everything,” Bacho replied casually. “The Estonian Cocksuckers Emporium. Janek got a package from his fiancée a couple of days ago.”

“_Find?”_ Garo raised a brow. “More like stole it.”

“I didn’t _steal_ anything,” Bacho protested slipping the soap under his armpits. “I asked for it. Politely.”

“Is that why I saw Janek cursing and spitting on the ground as soon as you left his tent yesterday?”

Bacho gave an indifferent shrug. “Maybe he didn’t like his vodka. Or maybe he wanted to water the plant with his spit, how the fuck should I know?”

Garo scratched his goatee. His buddy was a major asshole, he knew that, but sometimes he could be a very dangerous asshole.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to be pissing off these guys, Bacho,” he warned.

“Why?” the Georgian asked running the bar over his hair. “I didn’t see anyone complaining. Spitting doesn’t count.”

“Yes, because they’re afraid of you,” Garo explained trying hard not to raise his tone. “But one day they won’t be afraid of you, you have pissed them off way too many times - and you keep pissing them off.”

Bacho turned to face him blinking away the water that was rapidly turning cold.

“I have ‘pissed them off’…” he sneered. “That’s cute. After what happened to Igor they can suck my dick. I haven’t forgotten about him, unlike you,” he hissed stabbing his bare chest with his finger.

Garo’s gaze remained fixed on the ground, a hateful wrinkle breaking between his brows as he squeezed his ribs harder; he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands to himself if he looked at the Asshole now, not when his memory of Igor Vladimirovich Starikov was being questioned.

He broke into a bitter chuckle. “Don’t you dare…” he shook his head slowly digging rigid fingers into his shirt.

But Bacho was relentless. “You knew what was happening, you knew something was up but you didn’t say a word--”

Garo wasn’t listening. “I haven’t forgotten about Igor,” he murmured monotonously, staring into the void with stony eyes.

“—not a word, not until it was too late--” Bacho kept ranting.

“_I HAVEN’T FORGOTTEN ABOUT IGOR.” _

Bacho glanced around, alarmed.

Thankfully they were the only two people in the shower facility and only the trees were listening to their argument as dawn painted their leaves golden.

“I still close my eyes and I see him, do you understand?” Bacho lamented. “Do you have _any_ idea how it is?”

“I know,” Garo slurred crossing his legs, an ocean of pain silently stirring behind dark eyes. “You’re not the only one who regrets that day. But ripping these guys off their stuff won’t bring him back.”

“No,” Bacho rasped. “But it serves as a reminder that they won’t have their way again, not while I’m around. Igor’s not alive, but I am - and so is Pavel. They’d better remember that for as long as they stay in this hellhole.”

“Is that why you paid them a visit yesterday?” Garo scoffed. “To remind them who’s the boss around here by… taking their soap?”

“No,” Bacho growled baring wolf-like teeth as he rubbed his shoulders with a towel. “To warn them to not even _sneeze_ anywhere near the boy. You saw how they were looking at him when we were eating the other day, didn’t you?”

“Oh yes, and whose fault was that?” Garo snapped. “Manhandling him like that in front of everyone--” He gave a slow sarcastic clap. “Genius move, Bacho, you guys weren’t loud at all.”

“You’re the one who gave me a fucking flower crown while I was sleeping,” Bacho exploded wrestling with his trousers as droplets of water fell off black snake-like strands. “Anyone could have walked in on us, _anyone,_ there are five more guys with us in that tent and all you cared about was your stupid prank.”

“Yeah nobody saw me though - _nobody saw it,”_ Garo blurted out, his patience lost for good. He huffed out a shaky breath. “I was careful. I didn’t shout it from the rooftops.”

Bacho fell silent as if Garo’s words had suddenly struck a nerve.

“Groping the kid in front of everyone just because you’re a horny asshole who can’t keep his dick in his pants - what the _FUCK_ were you thinking?” Garo flared, empowered by Bacho’s stubborn silence.

But the Georgian didn’t seem to be listening anymore. He was making circles in the mud with his foot, digging deeper and deeper until his newly-polished boots were covered in dirt.

“You must warn him about Janek,” Garo pleaded. “I could do that too but you’re the one who was there when Igor died, Pavel must know. He has to stay here for another two months and we both have less than a month. You won’t be here to protect him.”

Bacho refused to meet the Armenian’s persistent stare. His face had turned into a mask of stone, his chest heaving with every slow ragged breath. He said nothing.

“I know you love him,” Garo said softly knowing that, from now on, every word of his would be nothing but a knife in Bacho’s heart. “But you must warn him, and you must keep quiet. Maybe…” He bit his lip looking in vain for warmer, more encouraging words. “Maybe there’s a time and place for everything, Bacho. But this is not it.”

The Georgian fumbled idly with the buttons of his jacket. He threw Garo a wounded glance and shoved a hand into his pocket.

“Keep the fucking soap,” he snarled tucking the towel under his arm, his eyes glinting with despair as he handed Garo the bar. “I’ll get me another one.”


End file.
